


Nothing In Between

by travelinthedark



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-29
Updated: 2010-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-13 10:45:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travelinthedark/pseuds/travelinthedark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aaron doesn’t know who he’s supposed to be anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing In Between

_"It's going to be great or a disaster. Nothing in between." -Sam Seaborn (The West Wing)_

 

Aaron finds himself in the kitchen one Saturday morning, staring out the window and feeling completely lost. Jack is in the living room with a bowl of Froot-Loops and the Cartoon Network on, and Aaron hears the high-pitched voices of the characters through the faint buzzing in his ears.

The thing is, he isn’t sure who he’s supposed to be anymore. Or rather, he knows who he’s *supposed* to be— knows what everyone expects of him— but he can’t get that to translate into something that makes sense.

So he stands and stares at that faint, translucent reflection of himself in the window and he realizes that he feels as empty as it looks. He’s washed out and worn down, and he thinks that maybe the reflection actually looks better than he does. In it, the lines around his mouth and the circles under his eyes are faded enough that he can overlook them. In the mirror they’re all he can see.

It doesn’t matter, though, because there’s still that empty, lost look in his eyes, that vacant stare that’s become part of his neutral expression.

He lets himself drift, one hand curled loosely around the handle of the refrigerator and the other hanging limply by his side, staring blankly at a half-formed image of himself. There’s a steady stream of thoughts flowing, smooth and meaningless through his mind until they wrap themselves back around to the same question: ‘What do I do now?’

When the theme music for the next TV show blares through into the kitchen, he startles, blinking rapidly and straightening. He finishes putting the cereal and milk away, rinses the glasses on the counter and places them in the sink, moves mindlessly through the kitchen.

He catches the reflection of himself when he’s walking out, and he pauses to look at it again. ‘What do I do now?’ he thinks, but the vacant eyes that look back at him don’t offer an answer.

…

Aaron sits on the balcony with his feet kicked up on the railing, head tipped back against his chair. He loves sitting out here just after it’s rained, loves the way it smells and the way he can hear the splashing of the cars as they drive down the street. It reminds him of living in the city, and from here he can see the glow of downtown in the distance and let himself pretend.

Before Jack lived here full time, before Haley died (before Aaron *killed her*, and he tamps down on the thought, but there it is), he used to sit out here with a glass of bourbon as the evening settled in. He’d let the pink-and-orange wash of sunset fade into the inky black of a city sky, tracking the few stars that dared make themselves visible.

Now he comes out here when Jack is in bed, leaves the screen door open so he can hear. He doesn’t bring the glass of bourbon anymore, but he still tips his head back against his chair and watches the sky.

…

Jack is this amazing presence in his life, and Aaron has never felt this way about anything else. It’s unconditional and brilliant and sometimes it makes his eyes well up just because it’s there, and every time he looks at Jack he’s amazed.

Aaron lays on the couch one night with Jack curled against his side, and he stares at the TV without really seeing the images that are flashing in front of him. The cartoon technicolors splash light across his face while he tries to hold it together.

It’s impossible and he’s fucked and he knows that, but he doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t know how to fix it. So he stares at the TV and blinks back tears and wants to kick himself for being so stupid.

After he puts Jack to bed he crawls beneath his own covers and closes his eyes tight. It feels like the room is spinning, though, and he finds himself stumbling to the bathroom and dry-heaving over the toilet, his hands gripping the sides of the bowl and his tendons rigid along the insides of his arms.

...

JJ calls them to the briefing room and gives them the details of their next case, and Aaron feels sick again when he sees the pictures of the families that have been slaughtered in their own homes. The coffee roils in his stomach- it’s the only thing he’s had since he woke up- and he rubs the bridge of his nose while he tries to keep it down.

He’s had this constant nausea for a few days and he’s barely been able to eat. Some voice that sounds disturbingly like Haley tells him that not eating will only exacerbate the feelings of nausea, and he mentally flicks it off and tries to concentrate on the briefing.

…

After three days the trail has gone cold; the murders have stopped and they’re no closer to finding the killers than they were yesterday. Aaron knows in his gut that they’ve lost them.

…

On the plane ride home Aaron tries to remember who he is.

It’s hard to say, and maybe he’s been letting the job define him for too long, because his whole world has been condensed to loving a little boy and chasing down psychopaths.

He closes his eyes and tips his head against the cool plastic-glass of the window, remembers a line from a Bret Easton Ellis book. “Disappear here,” it had said.

Aaron wishes he could.

…

He knows the rest of the team worries about him; he can read it in their expressions and can feel it in the way they watch him. He tries to keep a barrier between himself and them, wills them to back off, but he’s not that lucky. He works with a team of profilers, never able to shut themselves off, always looking and cataloguing and trying to understand.

He gets it, but it still makes him want to snarl at them and tell them to back the fuck off.

…

Aaron has his shoulders hunched over and his head down as he makes his way to the elevator. He just wants to go home and see his son and then sit in the dark and brood. When he feels Spencer’s hand land on his shoulder he shrugs it off and turns in one fast motion, and the smile he gives is sharp— double edged and cutting. Spencer pulls his hand back like he’s been burned, but there’s something in his eyes that looks like recognition, and despite Aaron’s sneer he doesn’t look fazed.

Instead Spencer just swallows, holds Aaron’s gaze and doesn’t look away until the elevator comes. They ride down in silence, but as they’re stepping out on the main floor Spencer looks at him and says, “I’m not scared of you, you know.”

Aaron stands there as Spencer walks away.

…

Aaron forgoes fairy tales in favor of Greek mythology. He sits on the edge of Jack’s bed at night and runs his fingers through the fine wisps of Jack’s blonde hair.

“Triton was the son of the sea,” he says, “and he lived in a palace deep underwater. When he was angry he would blow on a shell that he used as a trumpet and all the waves would well up like they were his army.”

Jack listens to him, sleepy eyed, until he slowly drifts off.

…

The next case they have is close to home, all victims within a 50 mile radius of D.C, all of them raped and dead at the hands of a man with psychosexual problems that never should have been taken out on anyone else.

It’s Aaron who finds the unsub, splayed across the double bed of a cheap motel, blood spattered on the wall behind his head and handgun hanging limply at his side. The smell of blood is stale and heavy, enough to overpower the scent of urine that hangs in the air.

The first time he smelt death like this he’d had to leave the crime scene so he could vomit without contaminating any evidence. Now the scent is oppressive and disgusting, but he doesn’t bat an eye.

For some reason that thought is more disturbing than the lifeless body that lies before him.

…

When they get back he locks himself in his office, like maybe two inches of wood will keep the demons of his subconscious away.

…

Aaron lies back in his bed, the cotton of the sheets rough against his skin and thoughts he can’t suppress making his breath come in heavy. He lets his hand slide down his sternum, play across his hip bone before he moves his fingers to circle his dick, half hard already as he thinks of high cheekbones and a perfect mouth.

The images move in slow-motion; high definition to the point where he can imagine the sounds, the smells, and the way those pretty (perfect) cheeks would look sucked hollow around Aaron’s dick. The way Spencer’s lips would be stretched around him, lewd and obscene, and the way Spencer’s tongue would be rough and wet and soft along the underside of Aaron’s cock. The way Aaron would wrap his fingers through long hair and hold Spencer’s head in place while he fucked forward into that wet heat.

He imagines the way Spencer would look up at him from beneath those long lashes, and he bites his lip hard when he comes.

…

It’s early and they’ve just gotten to the crime scene and he should be *fine,* except that he’s not, and maybe he hasn’t been for a while now.

His head is pounding, every heart beat is loud and angry and echoing as the blood rushes through his veins, and he turns way from the scene and raises a shaking hand to cover his mouth. It takes a minute for him to regain his composure, and when he opens his eyes again Spencer is standing there, silent and stoic and a reminder that he’s no longer the wide-eyed kid who stuttered his way into the BAU.

Aaron blinks up at him, and Spencer waits for Aaron’s (shaky) nod before he ducks back under the crime-scene tape.

…

Aaron dreams that he’s standing on the edge of a rooftop, with both of his arms outstretched, his fingers touching the sky. The air is sharp and thin and cold, and the wind is cutting through his suit so he can feel it all the way to the bone.

Below him he can see the normal traffic of a D.C. morning, the curling lines of tail lights as cars move along congested streets. In the dream he lets himself go and falls forward.

…

Spencer stands next to him while the LEOs give them the rundown of the latest dump site, and Aaron’s fingers itch against his palm, curling tight with reigned in energy. He feels like a live wire, strung tight and ready and almost out of control, just barely contained.

When they’ve split up, moving out to follow Morgan’s orders, he turns to Spencer with his eyes cast down, unable to meet Spencer’s gaze. There’s a heady silence, thick and filled with tension, before he says, “I’m not who you think I am.”

Spencer makes a noise like a snort; dismissive and disbelieving and so unbelievably *Spencer* that it almost makes Aaron want to choke out a laugh. “Yes, you are, Aaron,” Spencer says, and Aaron looks up and it feels like all that electricity that’s been coiled inside has lashed out and is burning its way through Aaron’s veins. Those aren’t the reflexive comforting words he was expecting— they’re hard and they’re true and they’re terrifying.

…

He curls up under too-thin motel room blankets that night, falling apart, letting things crash around him. It’s the stark, shuddering midst of autumn and he doesn’t know what he believes anymore.

…

It’s late night Friday after they’ve just finished a case, and every muscle of his body is tense for reasons he doesn’t want to acknowledge. Finally he gives in and picks up the phone.

Spencer is speed dial number six, and he answers after three rings. The noise from the other end is loud and oppressive and the heavy beat of the music speaks of a club, and Spencer’s voice is raw and ragged when answers, a shout into the phone. “Hotch, what’s up?”

Aaron winces and takes a deep breath, tries to cut his losses. “Nothing, nothing. Never mind,” he says, and he hangs up.

He tips his head back and prays for silence and sleep, but he asked for the interruption of Spencer calling him back, whether he realizes it or not. When the phone rings he answers it with a maybe too harsh, “Yes?”

And Spencer’s voice, rough and broken through the phone, makes him close his eyes and clench his teeth tight. The way Spencer’s voice is cracked is like an invitation for his imagination to run wild, and it’s all too easy to see Spencer pressed against the building in the alley behind some club, biting his lip while some random guy digs his fingers into Spencer’s hips and fucks him from behind.

He begs off from the conversation, tells Spencer that he’ll see him on Monday, and then spends forty-five minutes staring at the alarm clock, trying to tell himself that he doesn’t care.

…

The weekend is slow and shallow, filled with little moments where the sound of Jack’s laughter is the only thing that makes it inside the cracking shell Aaron has built around himself.

…

On Monday morning Spencer grabs his arm as he walks by, and Aaron spins with a barely suppressed growl before he can help himself.

Spencer stands his ground, raises his eyebrows and asks him, “Hotch, are you okay?” And there’s something in that question that alludes to Friday night. Aaron stares down at Spencer’s hand wrapped around his wrist, completely silent.

Spencer doesn’t let go, but when Aaron looks up he can see the tell-tale mark of a fading bruise on the outside of Spencer’s neck. He rips his wrist out of Spencer’s grasp and snarls, “I’m fine,” before he can think twice, and he tries to push the image out of his mind as he walks away.

…

They’re holed up in Tempe, Arizona, and the drinking glass beneath Aaron’s finger’s feels like it’s brittle enough to shatter if he closes his fist. He’s standing in front of the mini bar, about to twist open a tiny bottle of Jack Daniels when there’s a knock on his door.

He’s scowling when he opens it, and the image of Spencer standing before him in flannel pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt sets him even more on edge.

“What do you want, Reid?” He asks, and every part of him is tired and worn down, and he knows that’s exactly how he sounds.

Spencer looks up at him with wide eyes, tucks a piece of hair behind his ear and bites his lip before he answers. “I need to know that you’re okay, Hotch.”

Aaron is thrown off guard for a moment as he watches that moment of hesitation, reads the uncertainty that comes through in Spencer’s face before Spencer’s shoulders straighten and a quiet resolve etches its way into that posture. He lets Spencer push his way into the room, turns silently to watch him, and refuses to speak.

The bruise has faded, but Aaron can still picture it with a startling clarity that sets his teeth on edge.

“What’s going on with you, Aaron?” Spencer asks, and Aaron jerks his gaze away from Spencer’s neck to meet his eyes. And, *god,* his eyes are so wide and so fucking *genuine* and Aaron tries to hold his gaze, but the image of Spencer pressed against the wall of some club flashes through his mind and he inhales sharply and looks away.

He doesn’t have an answer; he doesn’t know what’s going on, because absolutely everything is wrong. His (ex) wife is dead and he’s lined with scars left as souvenirs from a psychopath and the thought of someone else’s mouth on Spencer makes his skin itch.

He feels a hand settle lightly on his arm and looks up to see Spencer standing right in front of him. “What’s wrong?” Spencer asks, and, god, those fucking *eyes.* It’s too much, and Aaron shoves Spencer away, hard enough that Spencer stumbles and slams into the wall behind him.

They stand there for a moment, breathing harsh and loud in an otherwise overbearing silence and Spencer doesn’t look nearly as shaken as Aaron thinks he should. ‘I don’t know who I am anymore,’ Aaron thinks, ‘that’s what’s wrong.’

He moves forward into Spencer’s personal space, holding him in place with a glare that’s maybe a leer and that’s maybe revealing more than he’s willing to give. He lifts a trembling hand to press two fingers against Spencer’s neck, directly on the pulse point, covering the spot where someone else had left their mark.

Spencer’s eyes widen slightly and his breath hitches, his tongue darts out across his bottom lip and Aaron drags his fingers back along the line of Spencer’s jaw before he pulls them away. He feels Spencer’s shiver and he steps back, turns his head to stare at the wall.

“Get out,” he says. There’s a moment of silence before he hears the door.

…

He stands in the shower with his head bowed, letting the water run from hot to lukewarm to cold, remembering his fingers pressed against Spencer’s skin and feeling filthy and tired.

…

He spends the rest of the case avoiding Spencer whenever possible, trying to keep his expression impassive as Morgan and Prentiss murmur to each other between barely-covert glances at him. He thinks about flashing them a reassuring smile, but he knows it’d come out as him baring his teeth in an almost-scowl, so he doesn’t.

…

Spencer sits next to him on the plane, and Aaron grimaces inwardly because he can’t move away without it seeming conspicuous. He spends the first thirty minutes sitting stiffly, pretending to read his book and tracking every movement Spencer makes. When Spencer splays his legs so that their knees brush, Aaron startles, stiffening and glancing at Spencer from the corner of his eye.

Spencer is watching him from beneath lowered lashes, and when Aaron raises an eyebrow Spencer just stares back, unfazed.

…

Aaron curls himself over his desk when they get back, blindly filling out requisite forms and trying not to *think.* Every time he lets his mind wander he feels like his throat is clogged, like there’s something physically blocking the air from his lungs.

When Spencer walks into his office and leans against the door, Aaron’s breath catches in his throat. Spencer smiles, a sad quirk of his lips, and tilts his head. “Figure it out, Aaron,” he says, and then he’s pushing himself off the doorjamb and walking away.

It takes a few minutes before Aaron can breathe again.

…

The next day he’s all elbows and limbs, awkward and tripping over himself and unable to regain his balance. Spencer smirks at him and it feels like a cut to the bone.

…

He finds himself outside of Spencer’s door the next night, his stomach coiled and heavy and low, filled with anticipation and anxiety. The sound of his knuckles rapping against the wood reverberates through him, and he closes his eyes while he waits.

When Spencer answers, it’s with a half smile and a nod of recognition. Aaron ducks his head as he enters, and he stops in the foyer, unable to make his way into Spencer’s home, into Spencer’s *life.*

“So,” Spencer says awkwardly, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking forwards on the balls of his feet. Aaron doesn’t respond, just runs his fingers through his hair, tired and unsure. When Spencer realizes Aaron isn’t going to say anything he steps forward, head tilted to the side as he says “Aaron” in a way that turns his name into a question.

Aaron has Spencer pressed against the opposite wall before he even realizes he’s moved, his hands bracing the wall on either side of Spencer’s shoulders and his head turned slightly, unable to meet Spencer’s eyes.

“Jesus, Spencer,” he says, and it’s a heavy whisper, harsh against the silence. “Do you even know?” He waits for his breathing to even out before he turns his head to look Spencer in the eye again.

Spencer is watching him, is looking for something, and when Aaron meets his eyes again he must find it, because suddenly Spencer’s hands are twisted in the lapels of Aaron’s collar and he’s being pulled forward into a bruising kiss. It’s harsh and it’s messy and Spencer is still pulling him forward so hard that the back of his collar is chafing at his neck, but then there’s Spencer’s tongue working its way into Aaron’s mouth, and it makes Aaron moan.

There’s the heat of Aaron’s body pressing against Spencer’s, the way Spencer’s hips arch up against him in a silent acquiescence, and it’s too much and Aaron pushes himself away. His lips are tingling and his fingers are numb and Spencer looks sad and strong and beautiful against the wall.

“Is this what you want?” Aaron asks, and his voice is rough and tense. “For me to fuck you in your hallway?”

Spencer stares back, panting. “Is that what you need?”

Aaron doesn’t have an answer for that, so he lets himself lean in again, nuzzling his nose against Spencer’s jaw before he pulls back fully and steps away.

“I don’t think so,” he says quietly.

Spencer nods slowly and doesn’t move as Aaron lets himself out.

…

The weekend passes in slow motion, and even the moments he spends chasing Jack around the playground or curling up on the couch with him and watching cartoons aren’t enough to make him feel real again. He sits on the edge of the bed while Jack falls asleep on Sunday night and he thinks about how much he absolutely *loves* this boy. He wonders why that’s not enough to make him feel complete.

…

Spencer’s eyes are dark and haunted, with circles underneath that almost look bruised enough to be black eyes. Aaron knows that they’re from a lack of sleep, and he knows that he caused them. It’s like a sucker punch to the gut, and he tries to plead his case in the looks he sends Spencer when no one else is paying attention.

Every time he catches Spencer’s eye Spencer looks away and Aaron feels ashamed.

…

Days go by with the tension between him and Spencer cracking like static electricity, but he doesn’t know what to say, so he pretends not to notice.

…

He shows up at Spencer’s again on Friday evening, just as lost but maybe a little more certain. Spencer opens the door with the ghost of a smile, and when Aaron steps into his hallway he crosses his arms over his chest and asks, “You figure it out, yet?”

Aaron looks him in the eye and wills himself to nod, but the jerky movement of his head betrays his uncertainty. Spencer doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, and Aaron takes a deep breath before he says, “Close enough,” and closes the distance between them.

This time the kiss is less awkward but no less intense, and Aaron lets himself twine his fingers through Spencer’s hair and press their hips together. Spencer’s hands come up to grip Aaron’s waist, his fingers digging in through the fabric of Aaron’s jacket, sliding their way underneath it and making their way to dip into the waistband of Aaron’s pants.

Aaron moves his mouth down across Spencer’s jaw, and Spencer tilts his head back against the wall and moans. “Gonna fuck me against the wall?” Spencer asks, voice throaty and deep. Aaron bares his teeth against the skin of Spencer’s pulse point and slides his hands up underneath Spencer’s t-shirt.

It’s a blur from there, with Spencer leading them (stumbling) down the hallway and to the couch, and Aaron pushing him back to see Spencer flushed and splayed against the fabric; it’s a jumble of arms as Spencer tries to unbutton Aaron’s shirt while Aaron tries to pull Spencer’s shirt off over his head; it’s the contact of skin on skin and Aaron’s hand snaking down to unbutton Spencer’s jeans, and the mewl of pleasure Spencer makes when Aaron’s hand wraps around his dick; it’s the way Aaron arches his neck when he feels Spencer’s hand around him.

They end up with Aaron lying half-across Spencer on the couch, both of their pants undone and pushed down to the knees, come on Spencer’s stomach and Aaron’s button down shirt. They’re both panting and it’s completely awkward and it’s so real it hurts, and Aaron grins as he leans down to press a kiss to the corner of Spencer’s mouth.

When he pulls back he’s still smiling, and Spencer is, too. “I think I can do this,” he whispers.

Spencer looks up at him, wide eyed and hopeful and absolutely beautiful. “I know,” Spencer whispers back.

…

The next day he takes Jack to the park and watches as he runs around with the other kids, falling in the dirt and laughing and getting grass stains on his jeans and leaves in his hair. For the first time in a long while, Aaron laughs, too.


End file.
